


Marian's Crucible

by PFCDontKnow



Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Jedi are Hypocrites, Jedi are Shit at Emotional Health, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, and Other Unflattering Opinions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-03-19 10:00:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13702176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PFCDontKnow/pseuds/PFCDontKnow
Summary: Simple acceptance is a perpetual death. The real dangers of this universe are preconceptions. Complacency. Pride. Keep your wits about you, young Jedi. True tests never end.





	1. a Sparrow, Adrift

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who doesn't own Star Wars. (It wouldn't be such a mess if I did.)

The girl who stumbled off the ship into the Temple hangar looked nothing at all like one would expect of a Jedi – disheveled, dirty, and tear-streaked eyes uncomfortably empty – but the raw _ache_ of her emotions through the Force was too powerful to be anything but. It was unspeakable sorrow and confusion, a turbulent maelstrom of pain and loss that went soul-deep, hemorrhaging uncontrolled into the Force. The alert from the Temple Guardian assigned to watch the unloading droids was all but unnecessary.

* * *

“The Padawan’s name is Marian Jhessak, Masters,” Knight-Healer Linec Rav stated, struggling to keep the awe out of her voice. The gathered presence of the High Council was…blinding, for one who relied on the Force for her sight.

“That’s Knight Zeqquri’s Padawan,” came the voice of Master Gallia, threaded with low surprise. Were the High Council less brilliant (or had she eyes), Linec thought she’d see the Master Consular frowning. “What could’ve happened? The mission we assigned them was nothing they hadn’t accomplished before.”

“We must remember, Master Gallia, that the successes of the past are no securer of a similar future.” A silent moment passed in which Linec assumed the Masters were nodding at the sagacity of Master Mundi’s statement before she cleared her throat in an awkward attempt at subtly regaining their attention.

“Apart from a few minor scrapes, moderate sleep deprivation, and light malnourishment, Padawan Jhessak is _physically_ fine,” she supplied, “Whatever befell them, it wasn’t a normal method of attack.”

“You suspect some kind of mental assault, then?”

Linec tucked away a flash of annoyance at being interrupted before (hopefully) the High Council could sense it. “If I may be blunt, Councilors?” After another silent moment in which she assumed they were nodding, because politeness dictated at least an excuse for a denial, she continued. “The mind-healers refuse to go near her while her pain is so fresh.”

She was pretty sure she imagined the ripple of shock that flashed through the Council Chambers at her oblique confirmation. “Have they sensed any evidence of the Dark Side?” Master Windu’s deep voice rang out, sounding more serious than she had ever heard.

A corner of Linec’s mind supposed this might have been a moment where one of her visually-dependent colleagues might blink at the unexpected question, but most of it was caught up in the realization that Kenobi had fought and killed a _Sith_ only four years earlier. “We, ah…didn’t notice any Darkness surrounding Padawan Jhessak, no. We…didn’t really think to look.”

“Always _two_ Sith, there are,” Grand Master Yoda admonished, as if he’d read her mind, “Remember this, you should, until the other, we have found.”

“Yes, Grand Master.” Linec bowed towards the intense star that was all she could ‘see’ of the eldest Master Jedi, honestly chagrined. They _should_ have remembered the Council’s warnings after the events of Naboo. “It won’t happen again.”

“Report back to us if there are any developments.”

Recognizing Master Windu’s command for the dismissal it was, she bowed deeply to the High Council in acknowledgement and took her leave, frowning as her mind turned to how she should pass this on without creating unnecessary drama.

It would be months before she discovered how badly she failed.

* * *

“Look, it’s _her_.”

“No, don’t. I heard that statue of hers taught her how to destroy your memories.”

“You’re being ridiculous–”

“–That’s impossible, the Masters would never have let her back if she could drain the lifeforce of others…would they?”

“Isn’t it weird, though, how _she_ came back perfectly fine, and Master Zeqquri _didn’t?_ ”

 _Don’t listen to them. Don’t listen to them. Don’t listen to them. They don’t know what they’re talking about, just don’t–_ Marian faltered in her walk as another wave of nausea rolled over her _–puke, don’t puke, don’t puke._

_Don’t let them see you’re still hurting._

It was easy to do around the younglings and Initiates, she didn’t need to do much more than keep a blank face and keep her thoughts to herself. The older Padawans and many of the Knights took more effort, burying her feelings deep down. It was hard, ignoring all the whispers she had to pretend not to hear, all the askance looks she had to pretend not to see.

Master Zeqquri would’ve been proud of her self-control.

She swallowed thickly, trying to bury the grief before she broke down there in the middle of the hallway. The dirty looks directed her way for even that momentary lapse of serenity were bad enough, she didn’t want to see their expressions if she let the cracks show any wider in public. The pounding in her head and the way the floor kept tilting on her was making it difficult enough.

She considered it a small victory (and she would take all of those she could get) when she reached the Halls of Healing without puking or falling over. Her shoulder would not have taken either of those well, and she’d just reached the point where she could ignore the ache.

The doors slid open with a near-silent hiss, and Marian felt herself untense just a little when the only healer she could see was a Miralukan towards the back of the room, turned away from the door. Very carefully, in part to counter the way the room was spinning and the rest to avoid noise, she began stepping her way slowly towards the medicine cabinet with the faulty electro-latch about midway in.

“Padawan, what do you think you’re doing?”

 _Sithspawn_. Her mind spun as she tried to come up with a good enough story, but nothing was coming to her. Eventually, she decided silence was her best course of action, and gave the med-cabinet a sullen glare. To her surprise, the healer didn’t immediately demand she leave, instead putting down the datapad (could Miralukans even _use_ datapads?) and making a beckoning gesture. Not quite believing it, Marian did as she was bid and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Well? What’s wrong with you?” the healer asked, already running through the familiar movements of basic humanoid diagnosis.

It took Marian an embarrassingly long time to realize she was asking as a test of her faculties. “Um…I think I have a concussion,” she enunciated slowly to make sure the words came out right (or so she hoped), “and I…wrenched my shoulder.”

The Miralukan made a strange sort of strangled noise as she ghosted her hands over her patient’s head. “What were you _doing,_ throwing yourself repeatedly at a _wall_?”

Marian laughed, which was a bad idea, since it triggered a fresh wave of pounding behind her forehead. “Something…like that,” she groaned, fisting her hands in the hem of her tunic to keep from grabbing her head, “Got…kicked into one, if that counts. Sparring.”

The healer frowned. “Who was on salle duty today, Padawan Raissusha?” she asked, more to herself than anything, “Why didn’t you go to her?” This last was directed at the patient before her, and it took Marian a moment to recognize that.

“Said…I was fine if I was…” Her brain refused to cooperate at this point, sending her thoughts in loops as she tried to remember what the word on the tip of her tongue was supposed to be, “…amiable tourney? No. Ambu…lance-y. No… Ambulatory! That one.”

The Miralukan seemed amused by her quiet pride, but it was quickly buried by a very clear annoyance. “Well, you’re obviously _not_ fine. I’m going to have _words_ with ‘Susha’s Master…”

Silence fell as the healer turned her attentions to the actual execution of her duties, the warming glow of the Force suffusing Marian’s senses. A relieved sigh slipped out as the pain in her head and all her tension seemed to just bleed out. She felt better than she had since Ralltiir– She slammed _that_ line of thought down hard and fast, and repressed another sigh. There was all the tension again. That hadn’t lasted long.

The healer put paid to any hope that she hadn’t noticed, frowning at Marian as she took a step back, but thankfully she didn’t press the issue. “You got lucky, the actual damage to your shoulder was minimal, but I still want you to keep it immobile and in a sling for a standard week,” she ordered instead, already turning to the med-cabinet, “Come back then, I’ll take another look at it. Ask for Linec Rav.”

“Yes, Master.”

“I’m only a Knight, don’t call me that,” _Knight_ Rav chided, as she helped Marian into the sling before shooing her out of the Halls.

Her stride brisker now that she wasn’t having to fight the floor, Marian turned towards the Archives to see what she could find on medical self-care. She didn’t want to rely on Knight Rav’s goodwill lasting forever.

* * *

Several months on found the Ferodal-born Human staring listlessly at the ceiling as the alarm shrilled away mercilessly out of her reach. She didn’t want to get out of bed today. She didn’t want to go out there, didn’t want to put the mask on that felt like it was growing flimsier by the day and at the same time more and more smothering. But it was her day for morning clean-up, supervising and helping the droids and some of the older younglings tidy up the common areas in their section of the dormitories, and she’d be late if she put it off much longer.

The statuettes lining the back of her desk pulled her gaze as she switched off the alarm, as they always did. Her eyes skittered over the statue of Ahnd-Rast, too many dangerous memories attached to that image of the Thriidosian saint for her to deal with today, and settled on the effigy of her ancient ancestor Hess-Arian, his hand outstretched in either order or compassion, it was hard to tell. Happier memories of Senna distracting Master Nu so she could verify the half-remembered stories flitted through her head as she brushed a hand over the little figure, part of her praying that his spirit would look out for her in the coming days. She knew it was just silly superstition, but it made her feel better.

Hours later, and morning tasks complete, found Marian wandering the halls at loose ends. Master Nu had been giving her _Looks_ for the amount of time she’d taken to spending in the Archives, and she wasn’t about to go volunteer herself for an hour-plus session of being stared and whispered at behind her back if she tried to aid in lessons. The Master or Knight in charge surely wouldn’t appreciate the distraction, either. Padawan Sushi (she _knew_ she shouldn’t call her that, even in her own head, but the Nautolan kind of deserved it) was on medical duty in the salle today, too, so that was out, which was incredibly frustrating. The salle was practically the only place where she could be free of the shadow of her return – Shii-cho didn’t whisper about her behind her back, Makashi didn’t constantly tell her to let go without telling her what to let go _of_ , Soresu didn’t look at her like she was about to start killing younglings in the halls.

She schooled her expression and stuffed her slowly-bubbling ire deep, deep down where she didn’t have to think about it as the door to a classroom slid open and disgorged its occupants: young Padawans, just beginning their teenage years or equivalent, only recently chosen by their Masters. Well, most of them anyway.

She’d recognize that sand-blond hair anywhere, everyone in the Temple did. The apprenticeship of Anakin Skywalker had been all anyone could talk about, until she’d come back. How Master Jinn had found him on Tatooine, Master Jinn declaring him as his Padawan to the Council – in front of the Padawan he already _had_ , no less – and Padawan Kenobi’s own pleading with them to train the ( _former slave_ , some rumors whispered) after Master Jinn died in what some were calling the Battle of Naboo. Marian remembered her own feelings of sympathy and compassion when she first heard what had happened, but now all she felt when she thought about now-Knight Kenobi was jealousy, and she didn’t know why.

Marian stayed behind to watch as a few of the Padawans – and little Skywalker – clustered near the entrance to the classroom to chat. It wasn’t like she had anything better to do. The halls were full of Jedi of all ranks as they passed to their various destinations, and as long as she remained near her pillar by the wall, no one would really notice her at a glance.

“–pass this next exam, Master Pwitretut said she’d teach me the starting forms of Shien after we got back from Ithor,” a young Fondorian was happily exclaiming by the time Marian had focused in on what they were saying. “What about you, Ani?”

“Master Kenobi got sent on _another_ mission.” Skywalker’s voice was surly as he admitted he was as stuck in the Temple as a youngling. “It really feels like he just doesn’t care about me a lot of the time. Like one of these days, he’s just going to abandon me without a second thought.”

She didn’t know why _that_ was the thing that set her off, the simmering cauldron that was her emotions exploding like the volcanoes of Mustafar as she strode over the knot of thirteen-year-olds and confronted Skywalker. She couldn’t even recall what she said as she tore into him, everything she’d spent the past year hiding and trying to let go of erupting out of her in a torrent of recrimination and shaming that got louder and louder. The look on Skywalker’s face went from surprise, to shame, to a poor excuse for controlled blankness that did little to hide the mutinous indignation that was building behind his eyes. A small, distant part of her wondered what would happen when _he_ finally snapped.

“ _Padawan Jhessak!_ ”

Marian jerked back, her fervor vanishing like smoke as the unknown Master’s admonition rang through the hall, suddenly aware of how far she’d invaded the young teen’s space.

Her face felt wet. Why was it wet? She touched her fingers to her cheek, dismay swamping her when they only came away slightly shiny. She was _crying._ Horrified and ashamed, she bolted from the room, running, running, running until she collapsed in one of the abandoned dormitory she’d taken refuge in before, free of ever-present, painful memories and judgmental, long-dead saints.

Leaning against the cot, she finally shattered, everything flooding out in waves of tear-stained anguish. “What am I doing _wrong?_ ” she cried out, her arms wrapped around her legs like she’s months from thirteen all over again and afraid of ageing out.


	2. Sequoia and Sparrow I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Star Wars Day, y'all! May the Fourth be with you!

It was by no means the first time Jedi Master Rho-Gaul Dorne had heard the rumors, by the time he returned from his (forced) sabbatical. Still, out amidst the other Enclaves, it had seemed less… immediate, these tall tales of a Dark artifact and a Fallen Padawan.

Patently ridiculous rumors, if one were to ask him; there were many Dark artifacts buried deep beneath the Temple, yes, but they were beyond the reach of even many of the Masters. And while the Order would be remiss to let a Fallen member of _whatever_ rank go free, they would not be so unwise as to keep them in such tumultuous environs as the main Temple. Instead, they should be sequestered in one of the outer Enclaves, where through meditation and the help of the mind-healers, they might be returned to the Light.

These were the thoughts and logic of the Defender of the Temples, if his opinion were to be solicited by his peers. But it was not, and so he remained silent. Master Dorne was not one to speak idly.

This taciturn nature bore itself out even during his own meetings with the so-called “Fallen” Padawan, the times he came across her in the training salles. He crowed no boast in vindication, for he sensed no Darkness. He offered no words of aid couched in pitying platitudes, for pity is reserved for that which is lesser than oneself, and all are equal in the Force. He simply watched as she progressed through kata after kata, form after form, drowning her grief and pain in mindless repetition.

The next day, he corrected her footwork with a quarterstaff. He said only two things: “Shii-cho, first sequence. Execute.” And then, “Again.”

The day after, he corrected her grip. “Again.”

The day after that, he corrected her timing. “Again.”

A month passed in this fashion. Words were unnecessary, save to signal when to begin, and when to move on. The _joy-pride-accomplishment_ the Padawan radiated when he nodded his acceptance of her first form execution made him smile, however slightly. He would not deny it. Master Dorne was not one for deception, much less of the self.

And then, the eruption. Within an hour of it, Master Dorne has heard three differing accounts. Within three, another five. The only common thread across them is Padawan Jhessak’s loss of temper. He frowns as he ruminates over it during his meditations. Her actions are, in the same moment, both expected and out of character. It is a dichotomy he spends too long unraveling before he reminds himself it was not his place. He is not her Master.

For three days, no one in the Temple sees her. When she appears in the salle once more on the fourth day, he does not reproach her. Her whole demeanor carries with it the knowledge and shame of what she has done, further censure is unnecessary. She will be harder on herself than he could ever be. Even then, he reminds himself again, he is still not her Master. It isn’t his place. (He finds the thought unexpectedly tinged with regret. He will meditate on what that might mean later.)

“Shii-cho,” is all he says, “final sequence. Execute.” He gives no indication as to the _relief_ he feels flowing from the Padawan, however much she tries to hide it. The rest of the day passes undisturbed.

He has only just set her to a corrective exercise the next day – too often she does not retract fast enough, leaving her torso open for fractions of a second too long – when the salle door opens with a near-inaudible noise. She freezes. He halts. Both turn to observe the interruption.

A young Mirialan, of age with Knight Kenobi’s (unorthodox, in more ways than one) apprentice, comes to an abrupt stop herself just steps within the salle, the door _hiss_ ing shut behind her. Nervous eyes flicker between the two Humans. A silent minute passes – only the _hum_ of Padawan Jhessak’s lightsaber fills the air. He sighs and turns back to his student.

“Continue the exercise. Repeat when you finish.” He has no doubt she will expend more effort eavesdropping than she will completing the exercise, but he does not preempt her. He has a suspicion as to what this intrusion represents.

Her affirmative is acknowledged in the back of his mind as he approaches the newcomer. Blue eyes widen as he towers over her, even standing at a respectable conversation’s distance.

“You have a message.” The younger Padawan gapes up at him for several long seconds, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. He can feel sympathetic amusement welling up underneath Padawan Jhessak’s own nerves.

“Uh…yes, Master,” the Mirialan eventually manages, “Padawan Jhessak is to report to the Council of Reassignment at, um…” Here her eyes dart rapidly to the side and back she shuffles in place. “…at her earliest opportunity, Master,” she trails off, unsure.

The _anguish_ is a palpable heat at his back as the knowledge of what this means hits home for the elder Padawan. He turns to see her, lightsaber pointed at the deck in a loose grip, her figure slumped in weary resignation, but he is privately proud to see her expression stoic. At his minute nod, she deactivates her ‘saber and returns it to her belt as she approaches them.

As she draws level with him, she visibly steels herself, schooling the _pain-dread-resignation_ she feels well enough as she executes a perfect bow. “Thank you, Master Dorne, for…your instruction.” Her voice wavers as she speaks, and he can hear what she wished to say as clearly as he can the last-second word change. “I will not forget it.”

He returns a bow of his own and studies her face for a moment. He memorizes her mussed brown hair, grown longer than Padawan-standard in neglect, her eyes grey like charcoal. He has enjoyed having a student once more. He does not want to forget the one who made him remember that. “Not all change is an ending.”

With another, smaller bow, Padawan Jhessak steps away. He frowns as he watches the Mirialan Padawan scurry to catch up, the salle door closing behind them. He spends long minutes standing there in contemplation, watching the unopening door. He considers the clarity of her emotions, even as she attempts to shield them from observation. He ponders the ease with which he understands her drive, her desires. He challenges his own desires to keep her at hand, to bestow her with the wealth of experience he holds.

A conclusion is reached. The Force ripples with a certainty. Of what, he cannot sense. He nods sharply, and immediately moves towards the turbolifts. Master Rho-Gaul Dorne, above all other things, was not one for vacillation.

* * *

It was in silence that the two Padawans made the long trek to the northeast tower. She could sense the building air of nervousness as she kept pace with the Mirialan, but it didn’t seem to touch her. It was strange. Now that she’d gotten a hold on her own feelings, Marian felt… calm. Centered, in a way that she hadn’t been since Ralltiir.

But it felt… _different_ , somehow. With Master Zeqquri, there’d always been this sense of _motion_. Like he was driven to some kind of glorious purpose. Trying to stand near him was like trying to stand against a current – you went along or were swept aside. When he’d abandoned her (a wound that ached every time she reached for a connection that wasn’t there), she’d lost her footing, and the current had nearly drowned her. Now…

Now, the Force carried a sense like a rock, or some great tree – unmoved by current or storm. The same weight of certainty, but more immutable. Steadier. She clung to it with every fiber of her being.

As the lift traveled upward, Marian sighed and tried not to feel hurt when the younger Padawan flinched. “What’s your name?”

The Padawan visibly hesitated. “Barriss,” she eventually said, “Barriss Offee.”

Marian took a moment to recall if she knew that name. She did, to her surprise. “Master Unduli’s student, right? You must’ve been thrilled.” The bitterness was almost reflexive, and she struggled to keep it out of her voice.

Barriss didn’t seem to notice. “Yes, I’m very honored to have her as my Master.” The silence returned, but it felt much more at ease to Marian. It lasted until the summit of the Temple Ziggurat, up to the base of the Council spire. Another Jedi in unusual grey and white robes was waiting before the memorial statue in the center of the atrium, his hands clasped high in the small of his back. A dark grey hood shadowed his face, but something about him that felt vaguely familiar.

Barriss began to fidget as they drew nearer, stopping at the beginning of the tower atrium. “I’m… I’m sorry this happened to you,” she said, “May the Force be with you, wherever you go.” With a bow, she turned and began to walk away.

“And with you, Barriss,” Marian called after her. The other Padawan hesitated in her walk, but only for a moment.

After a moment that lasted an eternity, Marian crossed the atrium. Her eyes flickered over the elaborate Ansatan patterns embroidered into the Master’s sleeveless white surcoat before meeting the glittering amber-gold of his gaze. The memory came to her in an instant – _A windy launch pad and a small crowd, holding tightly to Aunt ’Lis while Uncle Al drones something at the High Council, and Mummy and Grandfather Fergus speaking quietly where they thought no one could see them to the white-and-grey man._

“Padawan Jhessak,” he said in the present, his accent just barely distinguishable from a Core-Worlder’s, if no less identifying. He seemed much less the giant he had once stood in her past.

Crossing her forearms over her sternum, she gave the Tevene Jedi Master a traditional, if un-Jedi, bow. “Master Kathreftis.”

With a private, proud smirk, he returned the bow before gesturing to take the lead. This final stretch broke whatever spell of calm she’d stumbled onto – Marian felt as if her nerves were almost literally trying to jump out of her body. As the lift ascended, she took a deep breath to try and find her center again. A hand on her shoulder made her tense reflexively, before she looked to see Master Kathreftis staring ahead.

“You are the eye of the storm, daughter of Hess-Arian,” he said quietly, without turning. His words helped, if only a little. Taking another breath, Marian forced herself to relax as she repeated it to herself.

_I am the eye of the storm._

The Council chambers were everything she expected. The rising sun through the high, arched windows turned the circular chamber a beautiful spectrum of rose and orange and gold. Master Kathreftis slid past her to take the final empty chair, nodding politely to the Nautolan next to him, who nodded back. Marian didn’t know her name.

In fact, barring Master Kathreftis, she didn’t know any of the Masters present, she realized. A healer’s robe on the blue Twi’lek in the ‘center’ seat led her to believe this was Chief Healer Che, but she wasn’t certain, and she was at a complete loss as to who the Zabrak and the Besalisk males were. Swallowing her nerves, she silently repeated Master Kathreftis’ words as she bowed low.

“I appear before the Council, as instructed,” she recited.

“Padawan Marian Jhessak.” the Zabrak spoke, and she turned to face him. “Do you know why you are here?”

“Yes.” Marian felt almost insulted by the question. _Kriff it,_ she decided, after a moment’s debate, _I am the eye – let’s see what kind of storm I can kick up._ It was the thought of someone with nothing left to lose. “My outburst last week served to confirm in everyone’s minds the rumors surrounding me, and the Council must be seen to act.”

“These rumors and your loss of temper have no bearing on this council’s decision!” the Besalisk objected, rather loudly.

A flash of anger rumbled up within her, and she pushed it down. She refused to turn and look at him, staring straight ahead as she replied. “My apologies, Master. I only assumed, given this council’s seeming lack of movement in regards to my case in the months preceding the incident.”

Master Kathreftis leaned back in his seat, a hand coming up to try and hide his smirk. The Nautolan next to him wasn’t even bothering to hide her grin, and the Zabrak that seemed to be leading the Council had the decency to at least _look_ chagrined.

“She makes quite the point,” he admitted to the Besalisk, who withdrew with a grumble.

She couldn’t get a read on Master Che at all, either physically or through the Force, and while the Besalisk gave only a slight frown, she could sense his growing displeasure with her simmering away. She couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“Regardless of the details,” Master Che spoke up, bringing them all back to the topic at hand, “The Council _has_ finally reached a decision, Padawan.”

“Yes, quite,” the Zabrak agreed, clearing his throat, “Padawan Jhessak, in light of your Master’s disappearance, your actions and abilities in the intervening time, and the absence of another Master to complete your training, this Council assigns you to…” he trailed off, his brow furrowing in confusion as the chamber doors slid open to admit- “Master Dorne?”

Marian’s head whipped around in surprise, despite herself. She almost dared to hope that he was going to claim her as his Padawan, but that didn’t happen.

“For what purpose do you interrupt this session of the Council of Reassignment?” the Besalisk challenged. At that point, Marian decided she didn’t like the four-armed alien at all.

Master Dorne returned the stare evenly. Something like that probably came easy when they were easily the same height if the other had been standing, she assumed. His words were just as even. “I’ve come to collect my Padawan.”

She almost sank to the floor right there in relief. Master Kathreftis steepled his fingers, shielding his lower face from view once again. The Nautolan stared, mouth agape. Master Che merely blinked in surprise, while the Zabrak frowned and rubbed his chin.

The Besalisk sputtered for a moment before finally getting his words together. “This is _highly_ irregular!”

“Master Jinn took Knight Kenobi from the AgriCorps,” Master Kathreftis replied evenly, cutting his counterpart off at the knees, “I fail to see how this is any different.”

“Well, we know what _your_ two votes are…” the Zabrak Master grumbled behind his hand, “Master Enno? I’m sure I can already guess.”

Master Enno was grinning again. “I’m with Kathreftis, yes.”

“Master Che?”

The Chief Healer closed her eyes. After a long moment, she opened them again and nodded.

With a deep breath, he straightened in his seat. “Very well. In light of the appearance of another Master to complete your training, Padawan Jhessak, this Council’s decision is rendered moot. May the Force be with you both. This Council is adjourned.”

* * *

The sun had long since set by the time the door to his chambers opened to reveal his oldest friend among the Order. After welcoming him in properly and as the old traditions dictated (a ritual that always left other bemused, but that was half the point), he let the silence hang. His friend would speak when he was ready, small talk was an unnecessary frivolity. In younger days (in better days), it had been something our circle had enjoyed about the others.

“I did not expect the Bond to form as quickly as it did,” Rho-Gaul finally admitted.

Kathreftis hummed as he took a sip of his drink. “Yes, the Jhessaks have formed fast and lasting bonds for thousands of years, even among those insensitive to the Force.” He set the cup down and gestured as if directing Dorne’s attention to something. “Just look at the new Viscount of the Kirkwall, or the Void-Queen of Ferodal.”

“You know you’re the only one who keeps up with Thriidosian politics, Tarnast.” The rejoinder was flat, but the look on Rho-Gaul’s face was amused.

Tarnast returned the smile with one of his own. “That’s not your question, though.”

Silence reigned again as Rho-Gaul sipped at his tea, gathering his thoughts. Eventually, he spoke. “Why wouldn’t you take her? You spent enough time looking out for her in the shadows, certainly you could do more as her Master.”

A question Kathreftis had asked himself more than once. The answer, though, had no words that he knew in all the languages of men or alien. He could only share what he felt the Force telling him. “My path will lead away from the Order one day, Rho-Gaul. I’ve known since long before Galidraan.”

It wasn’t really an answer… but it answered his question anyway. He sighed wearily. “First Dooku, now you… I am alone, then.”

“I haven’t left yet, and do not see it happening for some years,” Tarnast was quick to establish. “Rho…” He looked up at the nickname that hadn’t been used since they both were Padawans. “Whatever Dooku’s reasons, I know _I_ will leave reassured. Your shoulders are still broad, and the Republic rests well upon them.”

Two old friends shared a small smile at an old private joke. One smile hid despair, the other hid regret.


End file.
